


A Painful Pursuit

by MotherCranberry



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Fear, Gen, Horror, Oh god, Original Story - Freeform, Panic, Rage, scary stuff, some horror, there's death, ykno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 22:13:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12850578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherCranberry/pseuds/MotherCranberry
Summary: Some fear, some death, some horror in between. This was actually just to test my skills of conveying emotion, and to see what the readers think; enjoy.





	A Painful Pursuit

His breathing was heavy and panicked as he ran through the alley, brick scraping roughly against his knuckles. He barely noticed, feet thumping against the ground, muscles burning. His eyes were wild, darting involuntarily around as he skidded to a halt directly before slamming into the brick wall. He was cornered, trapped, stuck like a dog in a cage. His heart slammed against his ribs, fluttering like a bird along his heavily rising chest. He closed his eyes, panting breathlessly as he leaned against the cool brick. He was done for. The thundering of footfalls was getting louder, and he felt even more pathetic and apprehensive as they neared. His eyes snapped open. And then, illuminated by a threateningly bright streetlamp—the only source of light filtering into the dark alley—three silhouettes appeared, one only slightly taller than the other two. They advanced on him, eyes made of yellow flint and diamond teeth. He grasped against the wall, unable to find a jagged piece of brick to hold him up; almost collapsing. The three did not stop, continuing until they were only inches from him. Fear thrashed around, throwing itself into his throat, forcing him to let out a high-pitched scream of terror. And that was what snatched the three’s attention. They stopped moving, and one lashed out, a knife of some sort leaving a jagged slice on his forearm, that stung. He barely noticed. He couldn’t make out was creature the figures were. It didn’t matter.  
Panic secured itself in him, and in an adrenaline rush, he burst blindly forward, smashing past the shadow-people, running like his life depended on it down the alley. The brick walls were long and they were closing in. It was dark here, though the single streetlamp still glowed its flickering white light. He ran still, feeling along the wall. He could feel the thundering of feet behind him. They were after him. Gritting his teeth, he scrambled out onto the street. The chase was on.  
As he bolted along the sidewalk, the only way he could see was guiding himself by the lamps lining the streets, flickering ever-so-slightly to add to the anxiety burning through his veins.  
And then… he tripped. His foot connected with something, some uneven piece of concrete, and he was flung roughly forward; smashing against the gravel. It burned. Flecks of stone scraped against the pads of his hands, and he groaned, struggling to get to his feet. Something thick and salty touched his lips. Blood. His chin stung, and he knew he’d scratched it, too. But there was no time to complain. He stumbled forward, feeling lightheaded and giddy with discomfort and blood-loss. The pounding of feet behind him had stopped, though he wouldn’t have noticed if he’d kept running. He spun around, wiping the palms of his bloodstained hands on his torn jeans nervously. There was nothing there. His throat tightened. They couldn’t have just given up, could they?  
Nope.  
He jumped, feeling a freezing, freezing sensation on his shoulder. It was cold. It was a hand. He didn’t move. It was their hand.  
With a choking cry, he lunged forward from the grip of its hand on him. He whipped around to face them. There they were, shadows of people that used-to-be. They watched him for longer than they needed to, smiles with their shining teeth too bright in the low lamplight. His body went rigid, unmoving, petrified. The smiles grew bigger. They could sense his fear. The slice on his arm hurt more now, and he was focusing on its pain when he felt a burning sensation in his chest. He gasped. It was a sharp intake of breath, not a gasp of surprise, but a gasp of horror, and it was painful—pressing against the new, fresh cut deep in his chest. He couldn’t focus on anything anymore. He was going to die. With an unintelligible whisper, he bolted forward, past them. He needed to run, to hide, to get to somewhere with better lighting, to get to a hospital, or the ER, or somewhere he could be saved before coldness enveloped him and he would fall, dead, to the already bloodstained sidewalk.  
His running was nowhere near coordinated; rushed and panicky as he stumbled forward, wheezing at great lengths to try and keep himself alive. Desperately clawing at nothing to stay upright, he continued his frantic running until he spotted a supermarket down the street. Safety. With an animal-like feeling of hunger, he burst into a sprint, however much it hurt. Darting down the sidewalk, he approached the well-lit store. The lights were on as he stepped closer, but as he tugged on the door, it remained locked. It jingled under his hand, taunting him. He kept pulling, desperate to open the door, but it wouldn’t allow him inside. His breathing was quick and fast, kicking at the door with all the strength in his body. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, chest rising and falling. He threw his body against the door. It only hurt him, heavy, thick pain that countered against the sharp, neat cuts on his body. His pace quickened with every weak punch he threw at the door. His throat burned from breathing hard, and tears were pricking against his eyes at this point.  
He knew they were after him. He knew they were behind him. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to get into a locked supermarket. So instead of running, he collapsed against the cold door, crumpling into a ball in resignation. He was done for. What was the point of running?  
He could feel the pounding of feet through the ground, and he let his nerves calm down. He was giving up, and in a weird way, it felt nice. Tears flowed down his face, but they weren’t desperate, they were gentle. No more running. No more screaming. No more crying, or kicking. He’d be dead, he’d be safe, he’d be okay. The shadow-people advanced. He looked up at them, and laughed, a cold, distant laugh, and then whispered a soft, “I can’t fight anymore.” Something trickled, hot and thick, from his throat; yet he was freezing. And then he gave way to a dizzying blackness, gone forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like it? Did you panic? Was it cool? Leave me some comments! I want to know how I can improve my writing! Thank you--!


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